T. Parker - The Jaguar

“I’ll come back for you if you want,” said Owens.

“Thank you. I’m having trouble concentrating.”

“Imagine that. Two hours?”

“Good,” said Erin. “Maybe we could take a walk later, outside. It would help to get some oxygen to my brain.”

Her heart tapped faster and she felt the shortness of breath that always accompanied her fear.

Owens studied her. “When?”

“When everyone rests.”

“Siesta. I’ll make sure that Benjamin is with me.”

“I’m terrified, Owens. What if someone sees me? One of Armenta’s men, or a leper, or a servant? I read Bradley’s note a hundred times. I know it by heart and I know the map by heart. But what if I get lost? One wrong turn. The jungle is dense. What if Bradley’s information is old? What if there’s a trail he didn’t know about and I make a wrong turn?”

“You’ll find the cenote. I know you will.”

“What if he’s not there? What if they arrested him? Or worse?”

“Believe.”

“What if someone is there first? Getting water or taking a bath?”

“Believe, Erin.”

“In what? In who?”

“That’s your choice. I can’t decide for you.”

She almost said that she believed in Bradley, but there was such a hollow ring to the idea that she couldn’t give it words. A short few days ago, he would have been her answer. Now, no. Ever again?

“Come with me,” said Erin.

“You forget, I can leave here anytime I want.” Owens brought a card key from the pocket of her jeans and gave it to Erin. Erin looked at it for a long beat, her small plastic rectangular savior. Then she dropped it into her boot.

“Won’t Benjamin know where I got it?”

“I stole it from my father.”

“Will Armenta feed him to a leopard when he sees I’m gone?”

“Father Ciel is safe from Benjamin Armenta. Protected by the God whose indulgence he sells.”

“That’s heartbreaking. He’s filth.”

“He is what he is.”

“Owens, why have you helped me?”

Owens gave her a startled look. “Mike says we can only give someone the tools to help themselves.”

“Then thank you for the tools, Owens. For everything.”

“Do you like what you’ve written so far?”

“Ask me later.”

“Back in L.A.?”

“Deal. In L.A.” Erin stepped forward and hugged Owens. Then she took the woman’s scarred and welted wrists in her hands and looked steadily into her gray eyes. “Sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I’m where I need to be.”

“What if Benjamin blames you?”

“I know how to lie to him.”

“An hour before siesta come back here. That will give me time to get to my room and get ready and go. And time for you to get back to Benjamin.”

“Before you leave the Castle, Erin, slip the key under the door to my room. Don’t forget. If you are caught with it someone will suffer. Maybe me.”

Erin sat at the mixing board. Concentrate, she thought. Concentrate. But it was almost impossible to compose now. The more the minutes ticked away the less control she had over her own emotions and words and skills. Her mind was beginning to storm. Bradley. The cenote. How to get from her room to the jungle without being seen. What were the chances? Then, the pathways. The trees. Would the trails be clear? Would Bradley be there?

Concentrate. Focus. She listened to Los Jaguars through the Auratones. The Jaguars were terrific, she thought, but she didn’t want to praise violence as they did, and she didn’t want to present Benjamin Armenta as a man created by the violence around him. He was not a product. He was self-driven, self-governed, self-made. If there was one thing she had learned from him over last night’s long dinner, it was that Benjamin Armenta was utterly aware of himself, without delusion and without excuse.

She had a start on a song but that was all-two verses and a chorus and a tenuous melody to hold them. What if the trails have grown over? But she was already two long verses into the song and Armenta was still only a boy. How long was this corrido going to be? What if he isn’t there? Where should I go? One of her favorite gangster songs was Dylan’s “Joey,” and that went, what, eleven minutes? Thirteen? What if they follow me, what if Saturnino is feeling strong again? Worse, she had no bridge in sight and every tempo she tried was wrong. She kept trying to get the odd syncopation that the corridos often had, that hurried, sooner-than-expected downbeat that foiled your expectations and made your breath catch and drove the narrative forward musically. Like you’re tripping but you never quite fall, she thought. Without it the song was sounding like a narcocorrido written by a gringa . I have to do better than that. The greatest narcocorrido of all time. Jesus please help me. What if Atlas wants to talk and I’ve vanished? Will he sound the alarm? What if Ciel tells Armenta his key has been stolen? What if the key doesn’t work?

The notebook was open on the board beside her and she read through what she had written.

City of Gold

VERSE

He was born in Veracruz

Son of a man he never knew

His mama did what she had to do

Lo que tenia que hacer!

Skinny boy long hair bare feet

Hermanos flacos- nothing to eat (Hey, Flaco!)

You gotta hustle to get the food

(Your) blood runs hot in Veracruz…

CHORUS (X2)

(Benji--)

Ah…you do what you have to do

(Benji--)

Lo que tenia que hacer!

VERSE

They beat him bad on his way to school

(La partieron la madre!)

He stole a truck ran down those fools

Took their dinero and left them dead

So the blood was turned to bread

CHORUS (X2)

(Benji--)

Did what nobody else would do

(Benji--)

Lo que tenia que hacer!

RAP

Chased through the streets of the City of Gold

Hearts beat strong in the City of Gold

You can feel the Ghost of Cortez in the City of Gold

Lookin’ for that pagan treasure in the City of Gold

Better go quick boy you better run

Little Benji hidin’ from the things he done

Get a reputation and the money will come

Where the blood runs hot in the jungle sun…

The clock on the wood-paneled mixing room wall said 8:25. She took the pen and notebook into the tracking room and moved Armenta’s accordion into one of the instrument booths so she could sit down at the Yamaha. Even the sound of her boot on the floor and the piano cover being slid open resonated in this room like a perfect musical chord. She ran through Joni Mitchell’s “River” to get her heart and her fingers working together and when she got to the ending quote from “Jingle Bells” it reminded her of Christmas and her home so strongly that tears welled in her eyes and she understood very clearly now how terribly Benjamin Armenta must have missed his home when he’d been exiled in Salvador, so she took up the pen and she listened to the wonderful melody and she tried to keep up with the lines coming into her head:

VERSE

So he hides in a secret place

Eleven months and thirteen days

He grew strong but he had the blues

He longed for a girl in Veracruz

CHORUS

(Benji--)

Sweet Anya in Veracruz

(Benji--)

He did what nobody else would do

(Benji--)

Lo que tenia que hacer!

(Benji--)

He did what nobody else would do

And then she imagined what it would be like to be kept from your home for not just a few days, as she had been, but for months on end, and to never know if you’d be able to go back there. What passion you would feel, to finally return! She tapped the melody on the piano and heard the instruments join in, the accordion and the bajo sexto and the guitars. Yes, it was starting to take on the sound of a corrido . Danger. Doing things you never thought you could do: